ArchivedLogs:That Kind of Week

That Kind of Week
Dramatis Personae Hanna, Lucien	2013-06-14 '
Location <NYC> High Line - Chelsea
Built on a freight rail, the High Line once was a railroad and has been reclaimed as green space in the middle of the city. A park situated high above Manhattan, what was once a rusty industrial wasteland is now a stretch of peaceful space to lounge and relax among grass and flowers and plant life. There are restaurants, ice cream sandwich stands, a beer garden, and the view all along the elevated parkland is unbeatable. After the storms that surged throguh the city the night before, Friday has been a beautiful, not too warm, not too cool, and without the opressive humidity of the previous days. High Line park is alive this early evening, with birds, insects, and all sorts of things - the trees themsevles seem to be sighing in relief at the change of weather - but there are notably less people enjoying the glorious weather than there would have been a week ago. People hurry to their destinations, only a few stopping to enjoy the scenery and beauty of the park. It has been a decidedly long day, filled with more scrubbing and scraping to clear off the front window of the bakery, in addtion to the normal activities of operating a business. Hanna has been unable to clear her mind at her appartment, due to current circumstances in the building, and is instead opting for a nice long stroll in the park to clear her mind. The baker is wearing a sedate 50s style day dress in a dark blue with white polkadots, the collar crisp, white, and pressed perfectly, a minimal crinoline fluffs the dress out, while simple black flats and a strand of black pearls complete the look. Currently strolling along one of the larger paths, Hanna is occasionally checking her phone, although she only keeps it out for a few moments, before sliding it back into a pocket again. Lucien is out enjoying the scenery. Maybe? Possibly? At least, it is a gorgeous day and he is lingering /in/ it, though if he is doing any enjoying it is hard to tell. His expression is mostly just tired; thin-lipped, unsmiling. He is perched on a bench at the moment, not on its seat but on its back with his feet perched on the actual bench. He's dressed casual, lightweight cream trousers and a green short sleeved henley shirt. He is not here /alone/; there's a young man with him, a blanket over his lap and a green knit cap on his head despite the warm weather, settled in a wheelchair beside the bench. The other man has evidently been reading, there's a Nook in his lap, but at the moment he has ceased reading and is apparently dozing instead. Lucien is through this peaceful nap kind of restless. Checking his phone, too. Then taking it out. Then checking it again. Eventually he stands, pacing nearer to the path; he gives Hanna a long /look/ for a moment, brow furrowed deeply. Hanna glances up from her phone as she continues walking, carefully tucking the device back into her pocket. She looks at the young man pacing near the pathway, her eyes a dull dark brown as she glances at him curiously, her eyes meeting his for a moment as he gives her a long look. Rather than be offended, or react negatively, Hanna offers a kind smile, and a little bit of a wave to the stranger, continuing her slow amble through the park. If there's anything this doesn't need right now, it's more negativity - and Hanna is actively refusing to contribute to the negativity today. Lucien's lips twitch upwards, too; it's not quite a smile as kind as Hanna's but it does mitigate a touch of the tension in his expression. "That," he says, quiet, "is something I have not seen much of, today." The response to the smile makes Hanna pause momentarily, turning back to look at the young man, her smile faltering slightly. "It's a scarce thing in the city this week, kindness. But," Hanna offers in response, her voice quiet, "I refuse to let the general," she waves her hand dismissively in the air, as though that were enough to indicate what she means, "Make me contribute to the negativity. So, a smile, and a wave." She eyes the phone, looking a little sheepish, "Sorry to interrupt your call, sir. Have a nice day." "I was not on the phone." Lucien glances down to the phone in his hand with mild surprise. Hanna's words earn another faint twich of smile; his bright green eyes slip back towards the young man sleeping in the wheelchair nearby. The smile fades. He pockets his phone again. "That is a rather positive way to look at things. You and my brother would get along well." His quietly accented voice holds a faint trace of amusement, but it's wry; he doesn't make this statement sound /exactly/ like a compliment. At this point, Hanna pauses, and turns back to face the two men, curiosity on her rounded features, her eyes having shifted slightly to a warmer brown, the change almost imperceptible. "Sometimes, I just have to force myself to be positive about things. Because quite honestly, if I don't make myself smile occasionally to people, I'm going to cry. It's been that sort of week," Hanna says quietly, glancing towards the sleeping young man, concern flickering over her features, though it passes soon, and she doesn't ask. Lucien's eyes shift back again, too, lingering on Matt for a moment and then returning to Hanna. He exhales a slow breath. "That sort of week," he agrees, slowly lifting his gaze to the sunny clear sky. "I suppose there are few in this city it has not touched. Some moreso than others. Though --" The dry note has left his tone finally, leaving it just soft and perhaps a little tired. "If there is ever a time for crying, I do not think anyone could be faulted for it just now." Hanna shakes her head, looking slowly around the park, "I haven't run into a single person who hasn't been effected in some way." She frowns, the slightest touch of indigo coloring her eyes as she looks at a point slightly off the path. "I've had friends shot at, damn near blown up," Hanna frowns slightly, "My bakery has been vandalized twice this week." Shaking her head, she offers a shrug, "Tears and sadness make shitty cake flavorings. And I think the city has enough sadness and tension, without me adding my piece to it." "We just came from delivering our condolences to some friends," Lucien admits, tone level enough to imply that this was someone-else's-tragedy. "I suppose at least morticians will do a brisk business, this month." His green eyes drift down to hers, studying them with a very faint furrow of his brow. "I rather prefer hazelnut, myself," he admits. "I am sorry about your bakery. I should think even bigots could appreciate a good cake." Hanna rubs the bridge of her nose, frowning slightly, "Sadly, I have a feeling the morticians will see a rise in business for some time, if this keeps up." Hanna shakes her head, her eyes idly shifting colors as she does, though staying in the darker range of colors, making it difficult to see the changes. "I'd like to think cake brings peoples together. That's what I opened the place to start with," Hanna offers with a slight smirk, "I'm an idealist at heart. Foolish in this city, I know, but," she shrugs, "I'm not from around here." "Just how new /are/ you?" This time, the dryness is returning to Lucien's tone. "And, mmm." His eyes lift from hers, back to the sky again. "How is that working out for you? I suppose you are right, to a degree. Though perhaps vandalism was not the sort of bringing together you were aiming for?" Hanna laughs brightly at the question, even at the dryness to his voice, shaking her head, "Oh, not that new. To the city, yes. To the shit that goes down in this world? Not new at all." She shakes her head and shrugs, "Grafitti isn't what I was looking for, no. I just wanted an excuse to make cupcakes." That may be a blatant lie, but Hanna is smiling about it none the less, her eyes having lightened slightly to a coppery brown, perhaps a bit of gallows humor, "I had no idea what kind of a monster I'd be creating when I opened this shop, and refused to turn away customers in this economy, but, well, it is what it is." "It is what it is." Behind them, the young man in the wheelchair is stirring. Slowly, sluggishly; he blinks with mild confusion at the bench where Lucien /was/. Lucien takes a step back away from the path, but stops long enough to ask: "-- Where /is/ your shop?" Hanna checks her phone again, frowning slightly, before looking up at Lucien, glancing back to the young man in the wheelchair, before saying quietly, "TriBeCa." Hanna sighs softly, looking pained for a moment, adding very quietly, "Had no idea what sort of trouble having a safe place would cause everyone else." She starts to move off again, "I've got to go. It was nice talking to you. Hope you have a nice evening, even if the world has gone to hell." "And you," Lucien returns the well-wishes with a slight tip of his head. "I hope things get better at your place." He gives her another long look, a faint frown at her pained look, but then just turns away to rejoin his brother.